“THE ART OF LEGERDEMAIN”, A POETIC JOURNEY INTO THE WORLD OF MAGIC

On several occasions, I have referenced my peak poetry-writing period in Boston from roughly 1990 to 1994. I had started writing poetry as early as my freshman year in college (1980) and then quite a bit of maudlin “woe-is-me” stuff after my first marriage ended in 1988.

Once I was surrounded by other writers and there was a chance to really focus on craft, I had a real chance to explore, well, me! It was no more of a response to the failed relationships and missed opportunities. I was turning the microscope inward and making an assessment of who I was.

My influences were Greek and Roman poetry, 20th century European poetry, jazz, and urban life. A small grouping of poems became the impetus for a collection. It was eventually titled “The Art of Legerdemain.”

The notion was simple: a young magician learns his craft, becomes fascinated with his ability to dazzle and amaze people, and then realizes it is all for naught as his life, and his magic, are transient. So, too, is the work of the poet.

While gathering the pieces, and writing new ones, I realized I needed to tell more than this fictional magician’s story. I needed to tell mine as well. There were sections interspersed within the main narrative of like pieces to present a chapter in my life. One dealt with heartbreak; another with poetic learning and adventure. Still another section was memory pieces.

I came across it recently, re-read selected pieces that I have enjoyed, recognized it was the work of a younger man still gathering his sensibilities, but pleased at some of the outcomes and proud of the chances that were taken.

The poem titled “Wallace Now.  Stevens Later.”  previously appeared in the Mid America Poetry Review, Spring 2000, Volume 1, Number 1. It was one of the first poems written that made me think of the overall subject matter and encouraged me to pursue this magic-laden poetical adventure. I present it for your consideration.

WALLACE NOW.  STEVENS LATER

This is not time for transubstantiation.

That alchemy is left for wizards.

I know of wine & blood and lead & gold

and baser things besides.  They sit

like knick-knacks on my coffee table.

I am too fascinated by wands and canes,

cards, rings, golden cones, coloured balls,

the blur of the hierophants arms

in his many jagged manipulations,

and when a dove appears from darkness.

I stare at auroras awed,

let rhinestones glitter in my eyes.

‘Pizzazz’ to me is still a sacred word,

more holy than ‘Amen’, more sanctified than ‘Love’,

an ever-present credo of my youth.

It is the song of words that sparkles

more than the words themselves.

The magic dance, the play of light,

a language foreign to these green ears.

I hear but know I cannot understand.